


Our Side

by mithrel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: Aziraphale knows the exact moment when it happens. It takes Crowley a little longer.





	Our Side

Aziraphale knows the exact moment when it happens.

In a church in London, in 1941, during the Blitz.

It’s not the fact that Crowley saved him from discorporation–he’s done that before, after all, during the Reign of Terror, in Paris.

It’s not even the fact that he braved _consecrated ground_ to do it, though that in itself is enormously significant. While not lethal to demons, holy ground is extremely uncomfortable for them, and the fact that Crowley just strode right in, without a thought, is immensely touching.

No, it’s the fact that, without any prompting from Aziraphale, who had quite forgotten the matter in the stress of the moment, Crowley _saved his books,_ just because he knew they were important to him.

It’s at that moment that love crashes over him like the bomb that’s just exploded, with rather more impact, and he is figuratively, and perhaps literally, doomed.

It’s not until later that he connects Crowley’s comments about the holy water to the conversation in St. James’ Park, and begins to worry.

And so, when, twenty-six years on, he hears about a group’s plans to rob a church, he makes some discreet enquiries, and finds out it was just what he was dreading.

He doesn’t know what Crowley wants the holy water for, but if he’s this determined to get it, well. Anything could happen, in those uncontrolled conditions, with humans who have no clue of the danger.

So Aziraphale acquires some himself, and gives it to Crowley. Doesn’t ask him what he wants it for. Not because he doesn’t want to know, because he does. And not because he trusts Crowley, because he doesn’t, not exactly. More because he’s afraid of hearing the answer. That’s why he brushes it off when Crowley thanks him. He shouldn’t have done this.

And he declines Crowley’s lift home. It’s true, what he says. Crowley _does_ go too fast for him, not just through the streets of London, but through Time itself, adapting to the new fashions and fads without a backward glance of regret, while Aziraphale is still mourning the demise of the gavotte.

But it’s more that the _situation_ is going too fast for him. It’s barely a quarter century since he realized he was in love with a demon, and now he’s doing things that, while not technically rebellious, would certainly be frowned upon by those Upstairs.

It’s a bit much for him to deal with.

* * *

Crowley doesn’t know when it happens, exactly. Well, it’s not in his job description, is it? Temptation and wickedness, and all that, that’s his department.

In the beginning he puts up with Aziraphale because he’s slightly less insufferable than the other angels, doesn’t seem to care that he’s a demon ( _Don’t be ridiculous, he brings it up practically every time you meet._ )

And then he was the only other immortal around, and it’s not like he could pal around with humans, well, outside of his job, where he can’t exactly get attached. Bad idea, getting attached to the ones you’re dooming.

So it’s pure self-interest that leads him to the Bastille, because humans may be good at thinking up new things (some of which are very effective at killing one another), but they’re not exactly long-lived at the best of times.

And they have the Agreement, which is the only reason he gives in to things like Aziraphale’s not-so-subtle hint about Hamlet (that and the fact that he’d never let him hear the end of it otherwise).

They’re not _friends._

Things become somewhat strained between them after 1862, since Crowley’s always been a pessimist and wants to prepare for the worst, but he still shows up at the church during the Blitz, still saves Aziraphale’s ridiculous books, because the angel will pout and sigh and make things unbearable otherwise.

And then they lose the Antichrist, and things start to go pear-shaped, just as he knew they would. He rather rashly suggests Aziraphale go off with him, only to get confirmation of what he already knew, that they’re not friends, that Aziraphale doesn’t give a damn about him, and he might as well leave.

So he lowers himself to actually talking to God, not that She would actually give him any answers (or anyone else, for that matter.) And then Downstairs finds out that the Antichrist isn’t and comes for his head. And Crowley goes back to Aziraphale and apologizes, not that he knows what he’s apologizing for, and asks him again to run away together, gets rejected _again,_ and thinks _Sod it._

And then the bookshop burns, and there’s no sign of Aziraphale, not even a charred body, and Crowley suddenly realizes that Aziraphale means more to him than humans, or demons, or the whole bloody planet.

Too late.

So he decides to do what any sensible person would do under the circumstances.

Get absolutely piss-drunk.

And then it turns out that Aziraphale’s not dead after all and his car is on fire and the Antichrist is telling Satan to sod off, then there’s the whole business with the last prophecy and the Hellfire, and there’s rather not much time to think.

Until it’s over, and everything’s back to normal.

Bookshop, car, everything. Even them, just going back to the way it was before.

Except not.

* * *

They’d had that conversation after the switch, and he doesn’t show it, but Crowley is still shaking. Not because of the holy water (although Crowley is really quite proud of Aziraphale for that. A rubber duck? Crowley didn’t know he had it in him), but because of the Hellfire. Neither of them had seen the last prophecy beforehand, and if the fire hadn’t charred the book in _just_ the right way, if a stray breeze hadn’t _happened_ to jar it loose, if Aziraphale had let it fall rather than catching it and reading it, if they hadn’t figured it out…if, if, if. He’d thought Aziraphale was burned to nothing once before and it was the worst moment of his existence, sulphur dive included, and the thought of it happening again, even though it _hadn’t_ happened, even though they’d prevented it, is enough to make his insides shake.

Aziraphale must have noticed his shiver, because he glances at him quizzically. “Dearest, are you alright?”

“Fine, angel, just fine.” But he’s not fine. Never mind the Apocalypse, never mind the trials, there’s so much they haven’t mentioned, like _We’re not friends,_ like _I lost my best friend_ , like _I forgive you._ And Crowley knows that they’ll never mention it, just like they never mention anything important, and he hates it.

* * *

He doesn’t see Aziraphale again until a few weeks later, when they somehow end up drinking Malbec at Crowley’s flat. The wine is quite good, an 1895 vintage, but Crowley finds himself unable to enjoy it.

“Dearest, are you sure you’re alright? You’ve seemed a bit…” Aziraphale pauses, “well, a bit _out-of-sorts_ lately. I thought it was the Apocalypse, but that’s well over and done with…”

 _Oh yes, over and done with. Just leaves the question of_ WHAT THE SODDING HELL _to do now._ He can’t help but sigh.

“Over and done with, yes, over and done with, and what do we do now? Are you just going to go on angel-ing, and I go on demon-ing, like nothing’s changed?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Well, I’m going to go on doing good, of course, it’s in my nature. And I suppose you can go on tempting and so forth, although you really don’t _have_ to, not if you don’t want to. I mean, we don’t strictly have free will as such, but we’ve thrown in with the humans and _they_ have it, so surely no one would object if–”

Crowley stifles a bitter laugh. Now Aziraphale thinks he’s having some existential crisis of Good versus Evil, which he is, but not at all in the way he thinks.

“Right, right,” Crowley cuts him off, and Aziraphale squints at him worriedly. “Keep going on as we have been, _not-friends_ and all.”

He takes a savage pleasure in Aziraphale’s wince. “Dearest, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. We are friends, of course we are.”

But how can they be? An angel and a demon? And even if they are, why does that not satisfy him?

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean…what?” Aziraphale blinks at him. “That we’re friends? I just said–”

“Nonono,” Crowley says, waving a hand expansively (and drunkenly) in the air. “When you said you forgave me.” _Bollocks._ He hadn’t meant to say that.

Aziraphale blinks again, and sets down his wine glass, and for a moment Crowley thinks he’s going to leave, but instead he moves over to the chair where he’s slumped, takes hold of his shoulders, removes his sunglasses, and looks into his eyes.

“Anthony J. Crowley, I forgive you for anything and everything you’ve ever done.”

And Crowley gets an idea of what the Catholics experience when they go to confession, but that can’t be anything like this. Forget some priest, forget God herself, this is _Aziraphale_ forgiving him, and Crowley finds his eyes are suddenly wet.

“Angel…”

Aziraphale smiles at him, but Crowley suddenly comes to his senses again.

“How _can_ you forgive me, I’m a _demon,_ I’m _evil,_ I–”

Aziraphale cuts off his protests with a finger on his lips, then leans in and kisses his cheek, and while Crowley’s still staring at him, gobsmacked, he continues.

“You’re a better person than most of the angels I know, and a great many of the humans. You’re not evil any more than I am. I couldn’t love you if you were.”

And while those words are still running across Crowley’s brain in search of meaning, Aziraphale kisses him again, on the lips this time, and it crashes over him. Aziraphale forgives him, Aziraphale _loves_ him, and he loves Aziraphale, and that, _that,_ is why he’s been feeling so miserable for the past three weeks.

But, somehow, against all expectation, it’s all worked out fine, worked out _better_ than fine, and Aziraphale’s here and he loves him and he’s _kissing_ him.

After a moment that was both far too short and lasted forever, Aziraphale pulls back and looks at him, with a bit of apprehension.

Crowley’s throat works, but nothing comes out. After a moment, he finally manages to whisper, “Our side?”

Aziraphale’s smile is blinding. “Our side,” he agrees.


End file.
